


A Reason To Fight

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, But maybe not, Caretaking, Depression, Drinking, F/M, Idk S3 makes me nervous ok?, Major character death - Freeform, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Soft Rio (Good Girls), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21719326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: Beth's mental state keeps spiraling down after S2E13
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 59
Kudos: 335





	1. Two For Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> As we get closer, I'm growingly apprehensive of the beginning of S3, and I guess this is just the most cathartic way I found to let go my negative feelings about it. Please make sure that you're okay with the tags before you start reading this because it's a pretty dark and hopeless fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cease the pain, life's just in vain, for us to gain nothing but all the same_  
>  _[...]_  
>  _Beneath the candle bed, two souls with everything yet to be said_  
>  (song from **Nightwhish** )

"I killed Rio."

"I _killed_ Rio."

"I killed _Rio_."

" _I_ killed Rio."

No matter the way she tries to put it, none of it feels right. None of it _could_ feel right. It has been three months, and she's still in the daze. Her mind froze like a computer that night, and it hasn't rebooted ever since. To everyone she seems normal, but it's... it's just a mask. There is no one behind, nothing but stupor and shock. Whenever she closes her eyes, he's still there, convulsing on the floor in front of her, no matter how hard she presses her eyelids with her fists to erase him. And deep down, maybe she doesn't really want to erase him, maybe she deserves this life sentence of endless revival of what she has done to him, like some modern, gangbanger-ish version of Prometheus.

Oh, she still manages to get through her everyday life, though. She's got years of practice at hiding her thoughts and feelings. People are so blind! Nobody has ever witnessed her sudden breakdowns, nobody knows about the nightmares, and the pillows soaking wet from her tears, nobody can hear her screams. She's not sure she's even had a full _hour_ of sleep ever since the night at the loft, but it seems like no one notices it. Of course, Annie and Ruby, and even Dean, they were there for her in the first few weeks following the _event_ , treating her like a patient with terminal cancer, or maybe a newborn baby, always whispering with worried eyes, as if they were afraid to speak at a normal volume. But it has only taken her a few days of saddened smiles and _'I'm okay'_ s to get rid of them. Little by little their vigilance decreased, until they eventually fell back in their own everyday life worries. And how could she blame them for that? They have lives of their own that are worth living.

She's better alone, anyway. She can stay with her thoughts and memories, torturing herself all day long without anyone trying to force her to climb out of the bed and go out for shopping or any other supposedly distracting activity. At first it was just guilt. Which turned into shame. Which has recently turned into hard self-deprecation. She has always carried a below average self-esteem, but it's a ridiculous nothing compared to the self-hatred she's living in right now. It's not only about Rio, though. Murdering him has just been the trigger bringing back years of self-contempt she's been carefully sweeping under the carpet of her conscience over the decades. But now the failures of her life are rising up, all at once, surrounding her with the shadows of her past.

Since her early childhood she has known that there was something wrong about her family. Things didn't happen at her home the way it did at her fellow classmates'. Her friends' dads didn't shout at them because they poured a few drops of water on the wrong side of the glass while serving them, they didn't drink cheap whiskey directly from the bottle in the early afternoon. They didn't hit their moms. But it all remained puzzling for the little kid she was until she got the key to everything. _She_ was the reason why everything was wrong. She still remembers her parents arguing one evening, unaware that she was eavesdropping. Her father was already far drunk, and at some point he referred to her as an unplanned mistake. Little Beth was eight at the time and she believed him. And although she would understand several years later that sometimes grown-ups say things they don't really think because they are upset, that she should stand for herself no matter other's opinions, the harm was already done by then. So she grew up, convinced that somehow she was responsible for this mess, that if she didn't exist her parents could walk away from this life that obviously made them both miserable. She's never told anybody about this. At the time she even did her best at making Annie feel loved, although it was obvious that something was dysfunctional in their home, and they both had to live with that fucked-up back-story.

Annie reacted by entering a circle of self-destruction as a teenager, doing every possible mistake until her unexpected pregnancy rescued her from the fall - for the first time in her life, someone needed her, with unconditional love, and it changed everything. But Beth buried it all, deep, denied that anything had only existed, rushed into a life and a world that weren't hers to build a new self. To survive. It has taken her years to achieve her goal, years during which she's been lying to herself every day, until almost forgetting who she is and where she comes from. But she's never completely recovered from her childhood. There have been several bumps on the road along the years, moments filled with an intense feeling of failure, the most serious one probably being her post-partum depression. But she's always found ways to keep her head above the water, and provide excuses. The mirror really cracked for the first time when she found out about Amber. Suddenly the foundations of her castle of lies got shattered and she didn't stand on solid ground anymore. It all came back, then, the voices inside telling her that she wouldn't escape her fate, that she deserved no love and no happiness, because no matter how hard she'd try to hide it, she would always be nothing, a mistake. An aberration.

And then. It happened. Rio happened. She knows, from the start she's known, that he saw clear through her lies and peered straight into her soul, he saw her appetite for destruction and her lack of fear for death, or pain, or anything. Why should she be afraid? Whatever may happen, she'd deserve it. There is no punishment harsh enough for someone who isn't supposed to _exist_ in the first place. But Rio didn't treat her the way she expected him to. He saw her true self and he... praised her. Showed her she was worth something. Wanted her. That was a truly unexpected, intoxicating development, and she'd do anything to keep him around, even when he'd tell her that they were good. But it turned out to be too much, too fast, like offering a feast to someone who's been starving for years. It scared her. So after diving in at first, she tried to end it, took her distance from it, although doing that killed her from the inside. But he... he refused to let her go, then, and things escalated from there, until she did... what she did. And this fragile self-esteem she'd managed to build over the years? It got shattered in the process. Sometimes she wishes he shot her instead. Obviously she can only but destroy the best thing that could ever happen to her, because that's what she does, that's what she _is_. A black hole of doom sucking every joy around, destroying others, dragging them into her hopeless spiral until there is nothing left. 

She can't even say his name without suffocating. She can't evoke anything about him that doesn't turn her into a mess. And week after week, she keeps mercilessly blaming herself upon the wreckage of her life, until the moment comes when the pain is too strong for her to handle it, about four months after Rio's death. She wakes up every morning wondering why she's still alive. She drinks herself to sleep at night, alcohol being maybe the only thing on earth that can still bring her a short and shallow relief. Well, not exactly, it's not the only thing she's... on. She kept the remaining pills from her depression after Emma's birth, just in case. It's not much, but that's a start at least, and honestly, it's not like she doesn't know any way to illegally buy drugs without a prescription... She _sells_ those, for fuck's sake!

Because, yeah, she's still doing that. Exiting from business has turned out to be more complicated than expected, and she needs the money, so. Plus it keeps her busy, keeps her mind away from... other things. And maybe it's also the only way that she's found to stay close to him somehow, maintain a small part of him alive inside of her. She feels like he isn't completely dead while she keeps doing that. Whatever. The pills do help at first. They kind of stone her, but at least she doesn't feel the burning ache inside of her, the tight knot in her chest and around her heart. Most of the time, she's living in an empty state of mental anesthesia and she's got troubles at even remembering what she's been busy with on the day before. But the pain still breaks in sometimes, especially at night, and well, that's usually the moment when bourbon takes over.

And it takes her another couple of months, but, little by little, she starts to think about it. Not as the solution to everything, no. Just as _a_ possible solution. A fire exit, in case the pain becomes too unbearable. It's just an idea, though, a purely abstract concept, that briefly soothes her, brings her the comfort to know that there _is_ an emergency button. And as the weeks go by and the pain grows bigger and bigger, she starts to think about it more. Googling stuff. Finding out the best ways to get over with the beast that devours her mind and rips her chest open. It's not that she's afraid that it might hurt, no, please, she's way beyond the point where she cares anymore about physical pain inflicted by anything or anyone else than... well... herself. Her own demons. But still. She doesn't want it to be a last-minute repellant. Again, just in case.

But she doesn't really think that she will come to that. She just likes... toying with the idea of it. Picturing her funeral and everyone's grief. It's somehow relieving, comforting. But will anyone mourn her anyway? Once the passing of time will have diluted the initial shock, will anyone _miss_ her, or even remember her? And she knows that there is an obvious answers to that, of course the kids will miss their _mother_ , but maybe that's the best thing she can do for them, as twisted as it sounds. Maybe they still have a chance at not inheriting her flaws if she disappears soon enough. She doesn't deserve them after all, she's an awful, alcoholic murderer mother. They'll do much better without her. She doesn't deserve to be alive. Not in a life where _he_... is not.

And she's not sure of whether it has happened little by little, without her noticing it, or all at once, like some brain defense mechanism, but one day she realizes that she's forgotten what Rio looked like. She doesn't even have any photos of him. She can't picture his face in her mind, and even in her dreams, she sees him without actually _seeing_ him, she just knows that he's there but she's lost his image. She's forgotten his smile, his eyes, his voice, and that's... terrifying. Because somehow, as painful as it was, the memory of him, of the only person who ever believed in her, it has maintained her alive, it has been the only valid point she could oppose to her scathing self-contempt, a fragile, infinitely small flame of hope that weakly flickered in her darkness. And if even _that_ is gone, then there is nothing left worth fighting for. That's the turning point when she stops swallowing her goddam pills, suspecting them to be the origin of her memory losses. And also, all things considered, because she'd rather feel the pain than stay in the numbness.

And she tries, she really does, probably out of desperate pride, but going on becomes harder every day. She's just lost hope ever since the day Rio deserted the theatre of her memories. Every night, when she's going to bed, she prays that she won't have to open her eyes again. Aneurysm, heart attack, whatever. She just wants the pain to stop. But it never happens, and she wakes up every morning, crying and already exhausted. Until one day, when she decides that she can't take it anymore, that it's too unfair. In her last rebellion attempt against her fate, erasing her existence is ironically the only way to save herself. To break the infernal circle and make it stop.

She's got a meeting with a pills supplier in the afternoon, and, well, she doesn't exactly care anymore about the consequences of _stealing_ something, so she retrieves a batch of sleeping pills. Enough to be sure that... you know. She's been torn lately between that option and throwing herself under a bus, but, despite its probable efficiency, she finds the latter kind of _messy_. She hesitates for a long time about writing a note, explaining something. What is there to explain anyway? That her whole life was a bug in the system that should never have happened? That she can't accomplish anything else than harming everyone around her? That she'll never forgive herself for shooting Rio? Nobody will understand. Except maybe Annie. She's the only one who knows the truth about where they both come from, who could maybe fathom how things went for her. But, like, no. She wouldn't know what to say to her. She does write love letters to each one of the kids, though. They are the only ones she feels truly sorry for. Besides Rio, of course, but he... will never get the chance to read whatever she might want to say to him.

She doesn't make a _ceremony_ of the whole thing. Please, she joylessly snorts, that's a romantic idea from people who've never wanted to die to imagine that someone would want to _relish_ their last moments on earth while they are precisely trying to escape from life, when each extra minute is excruciating torture. Her only and rather minimal concession consists of putting clean underwear on, before she sits on her bed. She stares for a while at the sleeping pills vial, feeling nothing but relief. Finally. Within an hour at most everything will be over. She's lost the fight, but at this point she mostly cares about giving up on the struggle, no matter how it ends.

_It's okay, ma, you did your best_

A trembling echo of his voice resonates in her mind, and she can't repress the tears that roll down her cheeks, sobs tightening her throat. Because she indeed has done her best, from the start, but it's just... never been enough.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, to herself, to the kids, to Rio, to everyone.

One by one, the pills land in her palm and she brings them all to her mouth, swallowing the whole thing with bourbon. And then she gulps another glass of it, for good luck. She settles on her back and breathes deeply, waiting. At first it doesn't seem that anything is happening, but at some point she tries to move her hand only to realize that dumbness has invaded all her limbs. She feels like she's all made of lead, an irresistible force dragging her down in the mattress, pining her to it, really. But as it turns out, as her body grows heavy, her heart lightens. The pain gradually vanishes until she finally feels at peace. Her vision is already blurring when she sees him, his face popping in front of her, forgiving and extraordinarily vivid, in one last vision she can take away with her forever. And she smiles at him, welcoming his regained memory in her last instant. She's finally found the inner peace that she's been seeking her whole life. She's happy. It's the last thought that crosses her mind before the curtain falls. 

____________

_Rio grabs the empty pills bottle on the nightstand and silently reads the label. His palms nervously rub his face several times before he softly presses two fingers at her wrist, right against her pulse. With a slight wince, he looks at her for a few more seconds before his fingers slowly follow the line of her hair along her temple, drawing absolutely no reaction to his touch from her. Her eyes are still half-open in her unconsciousness, and he spreads his fingertips over her face to gently close them._

_"Good night, Elizabeth," he whispers in a deep exhale._

_He slowly walks out of the bedroom, but he suddenly freezes in the doorframe. Half turning around, he gives her one last glance, biting his lips in agitation, and he seems to hesitate for a few more seconds before he lets out a deep sigh. Slowly, his hand pulls his phone out of his jeans and he dials a number._

_"Yeah, I got an emergency to report."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you recognize yourself or someone you know in the depiction of what Beth is going through, please please please talk to someone. It's important. We all deserve joy and happiness in our lives. And there is always hope, even when it seems that there isn't.


	2. Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's sad, so sad, it's a sad sad situation_  
>  _And it's getting more and more absurd_  
>  (Do I really have to precise that I borrowed that song title from **Sir Elton John**? ❤️)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, absurd it surely gets...

She should have stuck to the bus option. It is her first thought when she wakes up in a white impersonal room that she assumes belongs to a hospital. Unless it's Heaven, but come on, she's not _that_ cheesy. To be honest she's never really been into religion, to her it's more some kind of folkloric mythology. And if she happens to threaten one of her kids about going to hell if they don't behave nicely, it's only an educational shortcut, she doesn't believe there's an _actual_ Hell somewhere. So. End of digression. She's in the hospital. She can't believe the biting irony of the whole thing. She's such a failure that she can't even succeed at killing herself! It would be hilarious if it didn't make her feel so hopeless. Her first intent is to rip her perfusion needle out of her veins, but she's too tired for it. Life has defeated her and she's too weak to fight again right now. She falls back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she wakes up again, her mind is a little bit clearer. And Annie is here, which... makes it even worse, because the second she regained consciousness, the pain has been back, sharper, with the additional guilt of witnessing the grief she's inflicted to others. Annie looks like she's been crying for hours, and Beth wishes she were dead to not have to see this. Suicide is selfish. She's selfish.

Annie forces a smile on her lips, "Beth Boland! Everything's fine. You're in the Good Place."

Beth looks at her sister, puzzled, and Annie starts to cry, "Sorry, I just wanted to, you know... lighten the mood, but it's not really funny! Oh Beth, I'm so sorry, I never thought..."

"It's okay, it was funny actually," Beth softly replies with a weak smile.

Annie wipes her tears and loudly sniffles, but her voice breaks before she can even finish her sentence, "How could you..."

"I don't know. I guess I just felt a bit blue."

Annie's eyebrows furrow at the nonsense of her sister's answer, "Beth, stuffing yourself with booze and chocolate while rewatching _Love Actually_ for the hundredth time until you barf in the toilet, _that's_ feeling a bit blue! Swallowing a whole bottle of sleeping pills and writing farewell letters, it's, like, the next level!" she gestures with a hand above her head.

And Beth doesn't know how to respond to that so she does the only thing she's good at. She lies.

"Oh my God, did I do that? I don't really recall anything. I just remember being really... sad," she mutters, although she does remember everything, and about that, there is something she needs to make sure of, "Who called the ambulance, then?" she asks.

Annie's eyes widen, "We all assumed you did before you passed out! The hospital called Dean as soon as you got there — apparently he's still your emergency contact, you should fix that someday by the way — and he called Ruby and I the minute he got the message."

"Oh... Okay," Beth nods.

So they don't know who called, and that's a door of speculations she's not sure she wants to open. Ghosts don't call 911, she thinks. But she... kind of wants to believe they do.

She's so far away in her thoughts that she doesn't really notice how closer Annie gets, until the latter lays a hand on her shoulder, "Beth, I'm so, so sorry... We didn't know... We didn't see... I mean, we're here if you need to talk."

But Beth doesn't want to talk. She just wants to be alone, and think about it. About the happiness she felt right before everything went dark and the vision she had. About _him_. And even if she knows that it was just a probable last-minute manifestation of her guilt, she lures herself into the idea that somehow Rio's phantom came over to say goodbye. So much for not being cheesy, she's kind of starting to believe in ghosts, now. But come one, strange stuff _does_ happen sometimes! It's not like she's ever believed in UFOs or that kind of things — Annie does — but who knows?

She stays in the hospital for a week before she's allowed to go home, her physical condition having stabilized enough. Everyone is here for her, Annie and Ruby even take turn to watch her and provide company, and it's... it's annoying. It feels like the first post-shooting weeks all over again. She's sick of reading guilt and worry in everyone's eyes, the saddened _"nobody saw it coming"_ , the hypocritical visits of PTA moms whom she's never talked to before. She feels like an exotic pet everyone wants to see with a morbid fascination but keeps on a leash, because God knows where it could go otherwise. Ugh, please.

Her bitter annoyance maintains her alive at least, she can spit out some hatred around, it's not much but it's a little relieving. Because obviously. She can't try again. Not yet. She's being watched closely, to begin with, and she just... she's already _hurt_ people that she loves, she knows that Ruby and Annie, and probably Dean too, they feel terrible about what happened, and she doesn't want to put them through this again. Not immediately at least. But her own state of mind, it's... still the same. Probably even slightly worse. Her relatives insist for her to go on therapy, so she does see a bunch of doctors she doesn't want to speak to, gets prescriptions for pills she refuses to swallow, but honestly? She's just waiting for all the dust to settle. She can't wait to be alone again with her thoughts and the elaborated tortures her mind comes with, because she doesn't deserve all that love and concern, which she assumes are mostly faked. So she puts on her best comforting smiles, insists that she might have miscounted the sleeping pills, it was a mistake, really, a small bump on the road, that's it, you shouldn't worry so much, I'm fine you know, and yeah, you two should go to that night out without me, I'll be totally okay, blah, blah, blah.

And people are so predictable, it's almost a shame that it's _that_ easy. After a couple of weeks, there's no one left around her except her most inner circle. And although Annie and Ruby are still checking on her almost daily, trying to often take her out, organizing girls nights on a regular basis, Beth knows that their guard has lowered too. And she loves them, she really does, but it's not as if anyone could _save_ her from herself, she's already too far gone, so she doesn't stick to these moments with the girls, she lets every situation rot until she manages to spend more and more time alone. Dean has offered to take the kids at his place full time for as long as she needs to recover, and she has agreed that it's a good idea. The kids don't know what she did, and she destructed the letters she wrote to them as soon as she got home. Dean just told them that their mom is ill and needs some healing and rest before she can have them at home again, and she's... grateful for that, grateful that he didn't use her suicide attempt as an excuse to turn her babies against her. She visits them once or twice a week, but honestly it just makes everything worse once she gets home.

In a general way, spending time with anyone that she loves makes everything worse afterwards. Plus it's becoming harder to pretend she's fine whenever she talks to someone. She's not done torturing herself, oh God no. If anything it's even harsher than it was before. She does her best at handling it, though, she tries hard not to break down, because she knows that she's blown her wildcard and missed her shot at dying. She's not ready yet to take that road again. But day after day, the pain grows bigger, the beast is back, hungry, and she just wants to scream and rip off her own skin. She drinks to forget about it. Almost constantly. She couples it with anti-depressants sometimes, although her pill-swallowing pattern is kind of erratic these days. She wouldn't do a better job if she was actively _trying_ to win the World Cup of Irresponsible Behavior. And then, she generally cries ugly, all night long.

That's how she ends up one night, alone, sobbing uncontrollably under sufferings she can't bear. Tonight's special includes a main course dedicated to Rio's death — that one's kind of easy, he's basically _always_ on the menu — plus an extra guilty side about how Ruby actually feels responsible for _her_ suicide attempt. She closes her eyes, praying for the millionth time that everything could stop. She hates herself, so much, and it suffocates her. She wants to crawl out of her own skin, dissociate from herself and never see that bitch again. She needs punishment for what she's done to everyone. Her conscience is altered, she's drunk, but she knows that there is only one thing that can ease the pain. She rolls up her sleeve, scrutinizing her skin. It's been twenty-five years since the last time she did that, and the scars are almost invisible now, although she knows exactly where they are. She still feels them in her flesh. She used to do this to soothe her teenage angst, she remembers how good it felt, how in control she was, the relief it brought to her. She stopped harming herself the day she met with Ruby. Suddenly she wasn't alone anymore, and a lot changed in her life after that.

But now... Now her anxiety has reached a level that she can't endure anymore, and she needs the alleviation. It's almost frantic, the way she grabs the vegetable knife she used to chop leek when she cooked for dinner, barely a few hours earlier. She presses the sharpened blade against the skin of her left forearm, quickly slides it from the left to the right in a smooth move with a little cry of pain. Then she watches, hypnotized, crimson blood dripping out from the wound she's just opened, and it feels like it is dragging some of her pain out of her with it. It's intoxicating, and soon she opens another cut, right below the first one. The knife blade is reddish, and it satisfies her, watching herself getting the punishment she deserves, expiating in physical pain the sins her mind can't forget nor forgive. Then it gets out of control. She opens cut after cut on her forearm, it makes her feel powerful and alive, seeing her own blood running down with the feelings that drive her insane, and there's a blood pool forming on the kitchen counter when her crisis leaves her exhausted. But she's relieved. She can breathe again. With a snort of contempt, she pours the remaining content of her glass of bourbon on her forearm, wincing at the stinging ache. She wants to feel the pain. And if she's lucky, it might even act as a decent disinfectant, she thinks, right before collapsing on her bed.

But here's the thing. That night she dreams about Rio. She dreams that he sits beside her on the bed, and heals her cuts. It's a peaceful dream, and when she wakes up, there are bandages on her arm that she doesn't remember putting before going to bed. But. Yeah. She was pretty drunk last night, and it's more than probable that she's healed herself out of a reflex. It wouldn't be the first time that she forgets about something she did automatically, especially with her current drugs and booze habits. Just like that _thing_ about calling the ambulance, and leaving the empty pills bottle in unmistakable display to make sure that no time would be lost on diagnosis? That one she's really not sure she did, it's still a mystery. But the dressing, yeah, that could totally be on her.

Besides, these are semi-mysteries she doesn't really care to solve. It's not about that. It's about Rio popping in her mind both times. It's about his ghost manifesting itself to her _every time she's putting herself at risk_. Once she's formulated this idea, she just can't take it out of her mind. Because she wants to see him, she desperately needs to talk to him and tell him that she's sorry for what she did, so if she has to tiptoe closer to death to have a chance at it, then... she's in. She needs to believe that there is still a chance she could speak with him beyond this ridiculous distinction that people make between life and death. And she doesn't care that chances are that he doesn't exist outside of her head, that it's most probably a survival mechanism that her panicked brain summons in critical situations. She's... yeah, at this point she's going slightly mad.

It's still a spooky idea, somehow, but she tests her theory a few nights later, and okay, she's completely stoned when she decides to do this. She's sad, and she misses him. Ever since he's started to appear in her hallucinated dreams and visions, she just wants more of him. It's a new addiction. Her guilt is overwhelming, and she simply can't take it anymore. A few weeks ago, at a time when she was still trying to figure out the best way to get away with everything, she bought a gun. So she follows her crazy idea and carefully pulls the weapon out from its drawer, slowly cocks it and presses the barrel under her chin, shivering at the cold contact of the metal on her skin. She scornfully looks at herself, blatantly expecting for a ghost to appear while she's pointing a gun at her own head. She's 41 and she's pathetic and ridiculous, but like, fuck off! She waits, but nothing happens, and she's sighing in disappointment until she realizes, oh right, he won't come if she only _pretends_ to do something harmful.

Okay, whatever, she shrugs, and she pulls the trigger. Her mental faculties are too altered to even realize the obvious consequences of shooting herself in the head, she's lost any survival instinct at this point, obsessed as she is with the idea of seeing him. But she definitely wasn't ready for the empty, clicking noise she hears instead of the detonation she expected. What the f—

"Good thing I unloaded it, huh?"

She closes her eye, deeply exhaling, and she has to lean against the kitchen counter not to crumble, and it's not only because of drunkenness. It worked. And how could it not? He's always challenged her, pushed her into her darkest and wildest sides. It makes perfect sense that he keeps doing that from whatever afterlife he's living in, and makes her dangerously flirt with her own, definitive limits. With bulging eyes, she watches him emerging from the darkness of her living room to face her. There's a growing lump in her throat.

"Rio..." she starts, but she can't go further as her sobs take all the space available in her throat and mute her.

There is so much to say that she can't stop crying. Whatever paranormal experience she's having right now, it can't be real, she knows that he's dead. She _killed_ him. Which makes everything more painful, but it's... hypnotizing, she just can't detach her eyes from him. He's haunting her. And all of a sudden, it's out of an impulse, really, she frantically pulls the trigger against herself, again and again. If this is what afterlife looks like, then she wants to join. But the gun keeps clicking its emptiness, like a reverse bad dream, until she hears his gravelling, and frankly annoyed, voice.

"Would you please stop, Elizabeth?"

She comes back to her senses, or at least what's remaining of them, and she slowly lowers the gun, weighting it a couple of times in her hand. She should have known better. A full clip adds a pound. How come she didn't even notice that it was empty? She's shaking and dizzy, and she lets him gently take the gun from her hand as he comes closer.

"Why you doin' this, Elizabeth?" he softly asks with something looking like concern in his eyes.

He's so close that she wants to touch him, but she doesn't risk it. Her brain would probably implode while trying to fathom the concept, whether her hand passes across an ethereal texture or meets actual flesh, neither of it would make sense.

"It's the only way that I can see you again," she breathes, feeling that it's an obvious thing to say.

He frowns at first, before his expression gradually changes, and shocked understanding of what she's just said prints all over his face.

"Al'ight, then don't try that anymore," he eventually whispers, "Cuz next time I won't be there."

Her memories are blurred and confused when she wakes up on the next morning. She did drink more than her usual last night, and then she's... quite not sure of what happened. From what she remembers, she thinks she's been hallucinating. Obviously. Except that she can't find her gun anywhere in the house. But maybe Annie or Ruby found it a few days ago and took it without telling her? That definitely sounds like them. And maybe she just, you know, dreamed that whole gun situation. But the only thing that matters is that she saw him again last night, and well, it kind of creeps her to confirm her theory, harmful night after harmful night. This can only but actually kill her someday. Not that she doesn't want it, though, she keeps thinking that she doesn't really have much time left. She just didn't think that she'd go _that_ crazy and talk herself into believing in _ghosts_ in the process.

The point is, as time goes by, she falls into weird mysticism and lunatic behavior, but she just... can't help it. She's desperate. And that's how she ends up one night, sitting on her couch and already fairly drunk, her eyes blankly staring at the full bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. This could basically describe pretty much all of her evenings since Rio's death, except that this time there's a razor blade resting next to the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you that this would be dark... Although next chapter we're switching POV so you'll get to find out what's really happening behind this ghosty nonsense! 😉


	3. Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Couldn't save you from the start_  
>  _Love you so it hurts my soul_  
>  _Can you forgive me for trying again_  
>  _Your silence makes me hold my breath_  
>  _[...]_  
>  _You gave up the fight, you left me behind_  
>  _All that's done's forgiven_  
>  (song from **Within Temptation** )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rio POV, so we're going back a little in the timeline at first before moving further in the story...

He's not mad at her. Not anymore. He used to be, though, that he knows for sure. He did consider the idea of killing her, after all she almost sent him away for good. Three fucking bullets, talk about making sure he'd get the message. Well, guess what, he got it. Crystal clear. But, when it comes to revenge... nah. He doesn't want that. Better not attract all that attention on him once again. He just doesn't want to ever hear about her again. Let her rot in whatever lil existence she's built and get back on the track of his own life, which should never have crossed her path in the first place. 

But freaking fate or whatever has shouted a big _'Forget it'_ at him. Apparently the bitch is still in business, still selling the same product he does. Right now, he can't afford flipping his game, he still has that sneakin' snake of Turner around, and the business is at a low point. So even if he carefully avoids bumping into her, although the shock in her eyes would totally be worth the trouble, he still hears about her quite often. His supplier, Chuck, he's a lil prick who can't keep his fuckin mouth shut 'bout her, you'd think he's in love with her or summin'. That's how he hears 'bout the pills. The ones she sells and the ones she _buys_. For herself. But those pills, he knows for a fact that they're pretty strong shit, they turn you into a fuckin' zombie, you don't swallow that for stomach ache or sleepy night-night. Summin' is wrong with her, but like, he doesn't give a shit. Okay, maybe he _almost_ doesn't give a shit. But only for business purpose. You can't trust fuckin' junkies in that lane of work, so if she's become a liability it's still good to know, even if he's not workin' with her anymore. Better check on her to be sure, but... nah, he wouldn't take the risk to see her.

But then Chuck tells him 'bout the sleeping pills she stole, and _that_ rings an alarm bell. He shouldn't care but... he wouldn't have thought that she'd go down that far. And okay, maybe he's totally wrong and misreading the whole picture but that kind of behavior pattern can hardly be considered as a symptom of happy ending. Not that he wants her to be happy, he doesn't fuckin' care, really, but he doesn't _wish_ her this... whatever it is either. And okay, it's none of his business, honestly, if that bitch has decided to buy herself an early ticket for the afterlife but the truth is, he kinda hates the idea that she'll go still believin' that he's dead. Surviving was somehow a victory and he's always thought that at some point he'd let her know that he's still part of the picture. And losing that opportunity of a lifetime to make a dramatic entrance, not having the satisfied delight of witnessing fear and surprise in her eyes, it... well it kinda pisses him off.

So he goes to her place. Unsure of what he'll find there, unsure of what he'll do. When it comes to Elizabeth, he always comes undone, she always smashes his well-organized schemes. She's left her bedroom door half-open, and he watches her from the living room, hypnotized. She doesn't even notice his presence, her eyes on the pills until she's swallowed the whole bunch. She seems to be in a pretty shitty state. Well, _obviously_ happy people don't kill themselves, so, course she is. And he... doesn't try to stop her. Suddenly he's not eager anymore to add his existence to the pile of shit she's already blatantly suffocating under, oddly sorry for her but unwilling to be a part of this. He wants to leave but he just can't, and he doesn't dare to enter either, so he just stays still in the living room, watching and kinda anxious. At some point he forces himself to enter the room though. She's already gone, and, well, he isn't exactly _sad_ but, maybe a little. He feels like he owes it to her, giving a proper goodbye, and he'd swear she's just smiled when he leans over her to watch her closely. Her pulse is already weak and erratic, and it won't take long from now on. She won't suffer, unconscious as she is. And he thinks that this is it, but then summin' holds him back from just leaving her to her fate. She isn't the one who called 911, Turner is, but... she kinda left him with a tiny chance to make it. It's not like she tried to finish him properly with a bullet in the head or some shit. It's not like she _wanted_ to make sure he dies. Time to return the favor. She's already so far gone that he honestly doesn't believe that it will make any difference, but he calls. Just cuz... he owes her that. And before he leaves, he makes sure that the label on the pill bottle is the first thing emergency staff will read.

But funny story. She makes it thru. Got her stomach pumped or summin'. And he hates to admit it to himself, but it's a relief. He wonders, though, about what went so wrong with her. He's got a high opinion of himself, that's not even open to discussion, but come on, killing him ain't no reason enough for committing suicide afterwards. If anything, it should be summin' to brag about. He's not that easy to get rid of. What the fuck does she think this is? A twisted Detroit suburbs version of Romeo and Juliet? So he spends a few evenings parked nearby her house, just checking. Just finding out if the sleeping pills incident was a bump on the road, or if there is more to add to the whole picture. Clearly these are not her best days so far, but it doesn't seem that bad either. Her ladyfriends are checking on her kinda often, so he guesses that everythin's under control.

And then one night, as he comes across her backyard, he finds the house dark and silent, and it's unusual at this time of the evening. He tells himself that everything's okay, that she's just sleeping, but... he just wants to make sure, so he sneaks inside the house, makes his way to the bedroom he knows so well. The room is bathed in moonlight, and he can distinguish the shape of her body half-covered with the sheets. C'mon, man, she's just sleepin'! And he's about to leave when he notices the dark stains on the pale fabric of her bedding. He comes closer and he almost throws up at the sight. She's... she's... Jeez, how could she do that to herself? And the thing is, he's seen pretty dirty shit and serious injuries over the years, and it's not about the cuts on her forearm, he knows that those will heal without further complication, maybe a couple of scars if she's unlucky. It's about the mental state she must have reached to do something like that.

Course he's heard about scarification and self-harming, he _knows_ that such things exist, and call him narrow-minded but to be honest he kinda associates these with depressed emo teens wearing greasy hair and black eyeliner, who have nothing in common, even remotely, with Elizabeth. And _seeing_ that, on someone who used to be so strong, someone he used to find so intoxicatingly badass, it's... it's breathtaking. She looks so fragile, so vulnerable now, drunk asleep — he can smell the alcohol from where he stands — with her limb covered with blood. He sighs and walks into the ensuite bathroom to fetch a first aid kit. It's not much, but it's the best he can do. She squirms a little in her sleep when he sprays disinfectant on her wounds, it probably stings a bit, but she doesn't seem to wake up and he silently heals her cuts before he leaves. As he walks across the kitchen though, a glimpse of reflected light catches his attention. A drawer is half open, and it's unmistakable. There's a... gun in there. He swallows, his jaw ticking with anger, and a shiver runs along his spine to the idea that she's left alone with a fucking _gun_ in her house after she tried to kill herself, for Christ's sake! How come nobody noticed? Must be a recent purchase.

His first move is to take it away with him, but he thinks that she'll notice, she'll know that someone took it so she might try to get another one. Better leave it there. But he carefully unloads it, checks for an additional full clip but he doesn't find any. Given the situation, it doesn't seem like she's planning to use more than one bullet anyway.

And he doesn't exactly know why, but he checks on her more often after that. He's kinda worried although he wishes he wasn't. He shouldn't care, but he does, and that's freakin' annoying. She's not his enemy, he's past that point, but she's certainly not his friend either. She's just... someone who used to work for him, and that he used to be obsessed with. And also a mind-blowing fuck, but, that's not exactly the point here. Long story short, he keeps an eye on her, so obviously he's there the night she tries to use the gun. And this time he thinks that he's had enough of playin' it guardian angel style, so he just comes out of the darkness of her living room to talk to her.

First thing he can tell is that she's completely trashed. And he wants to talk some sense into her, but when she starts repeatedly pulling the trigger at her own head, he can't help but be a lil shocked. This makes him sad for her, but there is not much he can do 'bout it except taking the gun with him. And it kills him when he realizes that she's doing all of this to _see him_ , like a fucked-up demon-summoning magic or some shit. Enough, he doesn't want to be involved in this... whatever the fuck this is. So after that he tries to keep his distance and leave her to her misery, but he just can't help it. He's worried.

One night when he checks on her, he immediately knows that summin' is wrong. He's got an instinct for that. "Jeez, what now?" he thinks, with a slightly annoyed wave of his head. Frankly, he's getting sick of the impossible situations she puts herself into. And it's not like he could leave her to it, that would be cruel. The living room is plunged in the dark, and she's not sitting in the broad light of the kitchen, swallowing bourbon with her tears likes she kinda usually does. Not a nice show to watch, but he's learnt to get used to it. But tonight is nothing like that. When he finally clocks her, his heart stops beating for an instant. She's lying on the couch, fairly unconscious, and his blood freezes when his eyes focus on the razor blade her hand is still holding. As he gets closer he sees no blood though, the only liquid there being the inch of bourbon still at the bottom of the bottle in front of the couch. Whatever she's been about to do, she hasn't. She's just passed out from drunkenness he realizes with a sigh of relief.

But this madness has to stop. So he tries to wake her up, rubbing her cheeks with a cloth soaked in cold water until she weakly moans and blinks.

"Rio..." she whines when she finally catches up with whatever reality she's living in, "I tried not to."

She winces like a little kid who's been bad, her voice tiny and apologetic, and he gives her a severe look, "How much you been drinkin'?"

She hiccups.

"The... the bottle?" she mumbles with an expression suggesting that it's obvious.

He sighs, "Okay, get up on your feet, ma, I'll steady you."

It takes her a coupla trials to finally get up in a precarious balance. He wraps an arm around her to keep her from falling again, and she suddenly startles a little with a muffled burp.

"Oh no..." she manages to say, one hand covering her mouth, before she rushes to the bathroom, bumping into pretty much everything on her way.

And he knows what's about to happen, he knows that it's gonna be messy, that she probably doesn't want him to see it, but he goes after her. She's acting completely insane and irresponsible, and it drives him crazy, but also, he knows that it ain't completely her fault. She's been through heavy stuff. And seeing her in such a pitiful state, it's... kinda sad. She doesn't even startle when he gently gathers her hair at the back of her neck and holds it above her head while she barfs against the toilet. His other hand strokes her forehead and he stares at her shoulders spasming, and then shaking with sobs once it's all over. He helps her get back on her feet, hands her the toothbrush. She doesn't seem to have a will of her own anymore so she takes it, brushes her teeth automatically while tears endlessly roll down her cheeks. He hands her a glass of water then, she needs to hydrate, but she refuses it so he has to insist until she drinks with a wince, and it feels like taking care of a small baby. Fortunately he doesn't have to dress her up, she stumbles a few times but she's able to change into her pajama set by herself and he doesn't watch.

He guides her to her bed then, one arm still holding her to prevent her from collapsing, and he makes sure that she's properly settled under the sheets. She seems to be barely conscious of what's happening around her, though. She's curled up in the bed, eyes blankly staring at nothing while she's softly sniffling, and fuck, he doesn't have the whole night for this, but he figures, what's the harm? Trying not to think about the last time he was in this bed, he kicks his shoes off and slips fully clothed under the sheets with her. He holds her tight against him, gives her warmth and human contact, and she cries in his arms for a while, but then she gradually relaxes until she falls asleep. He doesn't leave until he's made sure that she's quietly sleeping.

Then he comes to hold her every night. He kinda doesn't want to leave her alone in the late evening, when she seems to be the most likely to harm herself. Sometimes he's late, because he had to wait for Marcus bedtime, or had a work thing, but she's always awake when he shows up. The later he comes, the drunker she is. She can't sleep if he's not there, she admits once. The first two weeks she just cries until she falls asleep. Then she stays quiet. Sometimes she talks. She tells him stuff he shouldn't know.

"I ain't no fuckin' shrink, Elizabeth," he tells her once but she doesn't care.

She doesn't want to talk to a shrink, she wants to talk to him. She tells him about her life before he met her. Her marriage with Carman. Her childhood. He feels like he's discovering her, he understands her anger, her blatant need for recognition. And somehow it's hard to listen to all of this shit, cause he knows that he can't do much about it but listen to her, he's no goddam therapist. He wishes he could do more. So he just holds her tighter and kisses her hair. He's shitty at comforting but she doesn't seem to mind, so he keeps doing that. And as nights go by, from her hair his lips slide to her temple, her forehead, her eyelids, her cheek once.

The first time he kisses her it's honestly out of pity. And, well, maybe it's also fueled with something else, maybe the feeling of her warm body snuggled in his arms like a wounded kitten, night after night, has awaken some tenderness inside of him, but it just happens. It's brief and shallow, almost accidental. She doesn't say anything, she just closes her eyes. Tears escape from under her eyelashes, and he knows that she's thinking 'bout it. About what they used to be. He nests his nose in the crook of her neck, letting out a discouraged "Elizabeth," under his breath. His lips are brushing the line where her shoulder meets her neck, and without even thinking about it he presses a gentle kiss there. He doesn't know how to tell her that she shouldn't feel _that much_ responsible for all the shit that happened. He doesn't know how to ease her guilt, how to tell her to go easy on herself. So he just presses his lips on her skin for as long as her tears wash her pain away.

The next night though, she catches him by surprise. Her face is resting next to his when she slightly turns her head, and her move is fairly minimal but it's enough for her lips to brush his. It's clumsy but he responds, almost out of an automatism, and it's timid, and soft, the way the tips of their tongues meet.

It becomes a habit after that, but the kiss is always shallow and tender. Forgiving, almost. It's not sexual. But it slightly deepens sometimes, and it's enough for him to ghost the curve of her breast with his palm. One night she catches his hand and places it on her chest while they are kissing. She doesn't remove her hand until he's started to squeeze and stroke her breast over her pajama top. And he's only obliging because she's wordlessly asking him to, he doesn't want to fuck her or anything no more. And if the whole thing leaves him semi-hard, it's only a natural reaction from his body to the touch of another human's warmth and softness, and nothin' else. And he doesn't know what fueled her that particular night, but it's the only time she so explicitly urges him to touch her.

He never stays with her til morning. This ain't _domestic_ , and they don't share sleep. He's just helping her, providing the kind of bedtime story she needs right now, and that's it. So he always leaves in the middle of the night. Except once. He's had a rough work week and he's _exhausted_. Still, he manages to crawl to her place, cause he doesn't want to leave her alone with her demons. He doesn't want to find out in the morning that she's fucking dead because he got too _tired_ to check on her. So he goes, and he holds her, and they cuddle, and it's like every night, except that he falls asleep right after her. And he only wakes up when she shifts in his arms, and he realizes she's awake, and there's light outside, and fuck, it's morning. She looks at him with giant puzzled eyes.

"You're real," she hoarsely states, like she's _discoverin'_ it, "I thought you were a ghost."

He has to blink several time to absorb such unexpected information.

"Course I'm real," he eventually says, wondering if the booze and pills she's been abusing of aren't kinda altering her sanity.

"So I didn't kill you?" she asks, and now he gets it, now he sees why this is so important to her. To hear him say it out loud.

"Nah... You didn't," he confirms in a breath, before he presses his lips on her forehead and leaves.

Apparently, finding out that she's not a murderer after all kinda eases her guilt, and gradually, night after night, she seems to feel slightly better, so he doesn't beware when she asks to see his chest one night. He knows it's not a new line she's crossing in their physical intimacy, he knows what she really means. She wants to see his scars, she wants to see what she's done to him. But still, he obliges. She's supposed to be a responsible adult after all even if she's barely been actin' like one lately. He lets her watch them, touch them, and then he holds her for an extra hour cause of course she cries. But he doesn't worry. He only does when he sees the fresh bandages on her forearm on the next night. She's been punishing herself. Again. He sighs, his thumb running over her cuts and she winces.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her chin trembling, and he kisses her before she starts to cry again.

And things go on for a while until he can't delay it any longer. He's tried to manage it remotely, to send his boys as intermediates, but in his lane work must often be done first hand. He has to go to Canada to renegotiate one of his pills deal with Big Mike. He has to leave her alone for one night, and he shouldn't worry so much but he does.

"I can't be here tomorrow night," he tells her the day before, "Gotta go over the border for work, but I'll come back in two nights. I promise. Don't do anythin' stupid, yeah?" he tries not to beg but his tone is fucking _pleading_.

She opens widely scared blue eyes, and he just wishes he could cancel his whole trip for her, "I... I can't!" she anxiously says.

"Yes you can, Elizabeth. You got this, come on," he adds with the same trustful tenderness he once had in his old loft.

And Christ, he sincerely hopes she does. She's all he can think about during his trip, and he wishes he didn't but he misses her at night, once he's back to his hotel room after his meeting. He's gotten used to hold her night after night, and now he misses the warmth of her body and the softness of her mouth against his. And he's worried that she could relapse into one of her self-destruction crisis while he's not there to watch her and protect her from harming herself. He wants to call her but he's afraid it'd only make things worse for her. If she's already freaking out, then hanging up on her might deepen her anxiety. He knows how much she relies on his _physical_ presence to soothe her angst.

He's anxious as fuck when he comes back to her place on the next evening. He's spent the whole flight back picturing her, knife in hand, cutting her own skin, he's dreading to find her lying in a bathtub full of blood, and he just wants to make sure that she's okay. He doesn't see her at first when he enters the living room and he's already assuming the worst when he clocks her in one angle of the couch. She's alive, and for one second it's the only thing that matters. She raises her head and meets his gaze, and there's something different about her. Her gaze is more... _alive_. And it takes him a while to understand, but then he notices that she _dressed up_ , and it might be the first time in weeks that she's wearing something else than pajamas, and it hits him.

"You sober," he says.

Since the night he found her passed out, he's only seen her drunk, or pill-stoned, or more likely both. She's slightly shaking, and she should probably check that she hasn't recently developed a physical addiction to booze, but her gaze is vivid and alert. She nods in response, and a mist of painful sadness hazes her eyes. He walks to the couch until he's standing right in front of her.

"How you feel?" he softly asks.

"Everything's... sharp," she answers with a small voice, "But I... handle it."

And he's so proud of the progress she's made, and so relieved that nothing bad happened that he wants to hold her tight, but there is a new shyness in her eyes that restrains him. He sits beside her, but it's already too close for her as she slightly moves away.

"It's weird," she breathes.

And somehow he gets it. Everything they've done so far, it probably made sense to her stoned slash drunk brain, but it has to be utterly embarrassing now that she's caught up with normal reality. He doesn't say anything, he just stares at her until she comes closer and nests her head in the crook of his neck, a "Whatever..." escaping from her lips. He strokes her hair and they stay still for a while. Eventually she slightly pushes him, silently asking for a hug and he wraps his arms around her, but they're sitting side by side and it's not really convenient so he asks, "D'you wanna...?"

She hums and they both messily get up and beeline to the bedroom. They crash on the bed and she wraps her arms around him, her face buried in his neck while he holds her, and he notices that her breath is louder than usual. 

"How did it go last night?" he asks in a whisper, dropping small kisses on her hair and temple.

"Hard."

Her voice is muffled cause she's got her mouth against his shirt, and he can only but imagine how much she must have freaked out.

"I worried 'bout you," he admits.

She presses herself against him, and he holds her tighter, his lips searching for her face as she raises her head, and before he knows it they are kissing, and it's sweet and soft as usual but fuck, she's so much more responsive than she usually is and it just... turns him so fucking on.

He can't help but deepen the kiss, his hand slipping under her clothes to stroke her breast and she mewls under his mouth. Her hands roam his back, and the kiss gets out of control until it comes to a point where it's obvious that they are wearing too many clothes for this, and he thinks that it's too bad that she made the effort to dress up on the very day when the only thing he wants is to undress her. It's not frantic though. There is something timid in the way they both remove each other clothes, it feels like a first time. It is, in a way. And he's not sure he's ever given so much tenderness to a woman before, but she just always shatters his every habit, that's what she does to him. They're completely naked, lying on their sides and pressed against each other, hands stroking bare skin and tongues intensely melting together, when he pauses it.

"You sure 'bout this?" he asks, although the way she waves her hips against him and clings to his neck leaves few room for doubt.

Thank God she nods, her eyes locked with his, and he lifts her knee up to his hipbone to press the head of his cock at her entrance. As he slowly enters her, she lets out a throaty noise, and Rio immediately freezes, unable to tell if it's out of pain or pleasure and afraid he might have hurt her.

"Did I do summin' wrong?" he asks with concern.

"No, it's just... I had forgotten how you feel," she whispers with shining amazement.

He looks at her dazed eyes and parted lips as she tells him that, and damn, that has to be the most erotic thing he's ever seen. With a groan, he pushes further inside of her, and fuck, she's so wet, and warm, and tight, that he knows he's gotta hold himself back from speeding things up. He briefly closes his eyes to cool down, but Christ, it's been so long for him, and he assumes for her too, and he wants her so much. Fortunately, the position doesn't allow much space for more than shallow moves, and they settle in that for a while. He fucks her slowly at first, taking his time to just relish her, kiss and lick at every square inch of skin in her neck and upper chest, savor the fact that they're both still alive to do this despite the odds. Touching her is intoxicating, and man, it feels like his body _remembers_ her, remembers what she likes and how she likes it, his instinct knows what she wants. At some point she starts to whine though, waving her hips against him in a demanding way, so he slightly changes angle, his upper body pulling away from hers to allow deeper moves inside of her, and she bites her lips, closing her eyes and sucking in her moans.

When she comes around his cock in a series of little whimpers, he feels oddly heavy-hearted. He wishes he could make her feel this good all the time. He wants her to never have to press a sharpened knife against her thin skin again. But he doesn't know how to say it, so he just kisses her neck and fondles her breast while he comes right after her, exhaling her name in a long moan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter in this story so I'm really excited to read about your thoughts here!! 🤗🤗


	4. A Reason To Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I won't give up so don't give in_  
>  _You've fallen down but you can rise again_  
>  _So don't give up_  
>  _[...]_  
>  _When there's nothing left inside there's still a reason to fight_  
>  _I'll be your reason to fight_  
>  (Beautiful song about addictions and its associated depression from **Disturbed** ❤️)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Beth POV...
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone! 🎄🎁❄️
> 
> (Cause yeah, it's Christmas so let's talk about depression and suicide, that's totally in the mood! 😂😂😂)

She wakes up in the middle of the night. Rio is still there, asleep by her side, one arm around her, his hand resting right below her breast. She's anxious, almost panicked, she feels that well-known tightness in her chest and she desperately needs to get out of this bed. She silently tiptoes to the bathroom, making sure she closes the door before she turns the light on. A drop of Rio's cum mixed with her own fluids slides along her inner thigh, and she wipes it with a sad grimace, repressing her urge to cry hard. She shouldn't have indulged in making love with him. It felt too good, and now it makes everything else even worse. The higher she climbs, the deeper she falls afterwards.

She leans over the basin, scrutinizing her own, naked reflection in the mirror. She can see everything. Her breasts, which have lost their glorious pride over four rounds of breastfeeding. The purple rings under her eyes and the wrinkles at their corners. The weight she's lost lately, and the way it made her skin lose its glowing elasticity. Her dried cheeks, constantly soaked with salty tears these days. The general damages of time on her body since she passed forty. She's ugly. There's no way anyone would want to hit _that_. And especially not him. Even Dean doesn't want her anymore, and he's not exactly of the attractive kind. Quite the opposite, actually. She can't even bear her own image so she grabs a large T-shirt from the shelf to cover herself, and she closes her eyes. The pain is still there, sharp. She hates herself, hates her body. She feels the craving for shedding her blood, she wants to watch the hypnotizing show of the red drops running down her pale skin, feel the relief in the physical burn, and the way she's hungry for it scares her.

She doesn't even realize that she's crying until she feels his arms surrounding her from behind, pulling her closer to his rock-solid body, his warmth, his stubble against her cheek. He doesn't say anything, he just holds her and breathes against her ear until she calms down a little. She opens her eyes, stares at him in the mirror.

"Are you doing all of this out of pity?" she asks, "Because you could as well stop."

"Who says I'm doin' this outta pity, Elizabeth?" he whispers in a sigh.

"This!" she gestures towards her body, "Have you seen what I look like?"

"Have _you_ seen what you look like?" he echoes. With a sigh, he slowly pivots her in his arms until she faces him, "The only thing I'm pitiful for, Elizabeth, is that you can't see what I see," he whispers, his fingers running along her temple and gently pushing her hair out of the way.

But that's not enough to convince her and undo the knots in her chest, and new tears start building in her eyes.

"I'm broken, Rio. I just can't... I just want it all to stop. All the time. I'm exhausted," she manages to say before the lump in her throat blocks her vocal cords.

"Just come back to bed, Elizabeth," he lowly asks after a silence, "Please."

He holds her waist all the way to the bed, helps her to get back inside with him, pulls her close to him, and settles his mouth against her ear. She's crying, and as long as it lasts, he tells her what he sees in her, whispers his admiration, mouthes his empathy, and even if she can't really believe any word of it, somehow it eases the pain, nourishes her starving self, until she eventually stops crying. His thumb wipes her cheeks with infinite softness, and she feels an overwhelming breath of affection for him in her chest, for his constant presence she's now addicted to. It's the first time in months that she actually _feels_ something that doesn't belong to the wide gamut of negative emotions, something that grounds her here and now and shuts up her litany of doubts, something which releases her from the mold of destructive indifference she's casted herself into. Something that may look like a tiny kernel of hope. But she doesn't know how to say it, so she just whispers "Thank you," before she kisses him.

He stays with her for the rest of the night, and waking up by his side, it's... it's nice. In the morning, he empties her liquor cabinet, fills up a plastic bag with her pills bottles, and she glares at him with a snort.

"You know that within an hour I can go shopping and refill it all, right?"

He smirks, "Still adds one more effort for it."

And she keeps pretending that she's annoyed with the fact that he treats her like an irresponsible kid, but the truth is, she's glad that he's taking any temptation away from her. Although she knows that going on without all that stuff will be hard.

She's proven herself capable of handling at least one night alone without him, so he doesn't come every night anymore. He's got a life and a job to attend, she gets that, and to be honest she's already embarrassed enough that he's pushed everything else aside for her during _months_. As a compensation, he stays with her until morning when he comes over. They don't have sex every time, though, this doesn't become a habit. It occasionally happens, or sometimes he goes down on her, repeating that he wants to make her feel good, but it's not what she seeks the most from him right now, and it seems like he's not here for that either. Although it's still incredibly beatific every time it occurs, that she can't deny.

He encourages her into going out of her house, spending time with her kids or the girls, cultivating her hobbies, anything that can clear her mind and ground her to reality. Sometimes he takes her out for dinner, or a movie. It's not a date, though, she knows that he's just trying to distract her into appreciating the little things that make life enjoyable. And, well, as absurd as it souds to her ears, he also seems to like spending time with her. He even takes her away for a long week-end once, in Canada, and okay, he attends a couple of business meetings there, and she suspects that it's the main reason for his choice of destination. But. Except for that he's all hers for three whole days, which they mostly spend naked and locked in their hotel room, overwhelmed with a mutual desire that neither of them expected. Although they do go out for a walk in a nearby forest one afternoon, because he tells her that he read in a magazine that the proximity of trees benefits depressed people and improves their mood, and after that she keeps wondering about the kind of magazine he reads. Not to mention that she would _never_ have pictured him as a forest guy.

And it's not the question itself, she doesn't care about Rio's magazine preferences, really, it's the fact that she's actually _wondering_ about it that makes her realize that something has changed, that she's capable of caring enough about a minor externality of her life to think about it. He keeps telling her that she needs therapy, he's even offered to pay for it, but she's not ready to admit that she needs professional help. It makes her feel like she's mentally sick, like there definitely is something wrong with her. She's not crazy, she's just garbage, she thinks. It's not the same. She remembers how shameful it felt when she went to that addiction support group, back then, when she was still trying to quit crime. She can't go back in there.

And, well... there is something else too. If she looks at the whole picture, she has to admit that she has no excuses for being unhappy. There are many people who have much more serious issues than she has, and they are doing okay with it. She even feels privileged in comparison with Ruby and Annie sometimes. She feels like she's acting like a spoiled child, and it shames her enough to refuse to ask for help.

Hence the first time she forces herself into making an appointment with a therapist, she does it for Rio. She doesn't want all the efforts he put into, well, _her_ , to turn out to have been made in vain. But she's so afraid she might quit that she doesn't tell him. The first session is terrifying. She's paralyzed with fear, just willing to run away, and she doesn't even try to speak. 

The next one, because yeah, she inflicts that to herself another time, she just cries the whole time. She's doubtful of the session's utility, but has to admit that she feels slightly better when she gets home. 

The third one, she starts to talk. And she just... can't stop after that. It seems like she's opened some sort of gate.

It's a very slow process, but little by little, session after session, she starts to feel slightly better about herself. Sometimes, she's even okay with her own company. And Rio is always there for her, and it's terribly embarrassing, she feels like the heaviest burden ever, but it's also... nice, having him around. He soothes and reassures her in a way that no one else does. But she's aware that she's developing a growing reliance on him, and sometimes it scares her. She's not strong enough yet to not crumble if he ever decides that she's not worth the effort and leaves.

And things go on for a while. She still hasn't told him yet about starting therapy, she doesn't want to create expectations so she's waiting for the right time. She's made some huge steps though. She's actually started to think that maybe there is a way out of all this, maybe she's not as doomed as she thinks. Maybe she's worth something after all. But she's not confident that she could actually win this fight. She knows now that it will take months, possibly years, that she will relapse, and lose hope again, that she might even never recover, and she's not sure that she has what it takes for such a long and hard battle. She doesn't trust herself into being strong enough to go all the way through this. But she keeps going to sessions, because she owes herself to give it a try. No. Not herself. She owes _Rio_ to give it a try.

And then comes the day she's been dreading the most for a while now. It's an anniversary of the worst kind. It's the only thing she can think about as soon as she wakes up. Rio didn't spend the night, and she's all alone in the big, empty house. She freaks out, completely, her mind filled with visions of bloody shirts and convulsing tattooed throats. She remembers every detail of it as if it were yesterday, and she obsessively loops on the betrayed look in his eyes right after she shot the first bullet. That look which said _"I thought we were something, I thought you cared"_. It just drives her crazy. It's like this whole year never happened, all the progress she's made lately have suddenly vanished, and her ferocious guilt is back, ready for a new ride on the rollercoaster.

So she cooks. She spends the entire day busying her hands, trying to focus her mind on melted butter and chocolate chunks. She doesn't want to call Rio, he's told her many times that she can call him in case of a panic attack emergency, but she's ashamed of the way she's falling back into her old habits, she doesn't want him to witness that. She's a disappointment. As usual. And thanks to therapy sessions, now she knows her patterns, she identifies her spiral, but still she's falling down, suffocating under memories that she can't forgive herself for having created.

Rio comes over in the middle of the afternoon. It's earlier than his usual time, and she wonders if he's sensed her distress. He looks, astonished, at the piles of cupcakes, pies and cookies resulting from her frenzy.

"You hostin' a charity or summin'?" he asks with a smirk.

She tries to smile back, because obviously she's been acting completely lunatic, but her anguish is overwhelming her, "Do you... Do you know what day it is today?"

His expression changes and he slowly nods, his eyes filled with compassion, "I know," he lowly says.

His eyes don't leave her as he walks around the kitchen island to join her, and she realizes that this is exactly the reason why he's here earlier today. He knew that she'd freak out. Out of energy, she falls into his arms and lets the comforting familiarity of his scent reassure her.

"I know, sweetheart," he whispers against her hair, before he adds after a while, "In fact, there's summin' I wanna show you today."

She slightly pulls away to look at him in surprise, "What?"

"Just come with me, ma. And pack some of these delicious snacks for the road!" he adds with a wink, and her heart melts at his innocent childlike smile, which looks so much like his son's.

She follows him in the car but she doesn't ask about where they are heading to. She's just enjoying his presence by her side on a day like that. The drive isn't very long, really, it doesn't justify packing _snacks_ for it, but he grabs the bag of treats when they exit the car next to a character building midtown.

She follows him inside, and, well. The loft is gorgeous, and although it's not the same place as the... _other_ one, she recognizes many of its furniture. She looks at him with incomprehension.

"So I figured, fresh year, fresh place," he explains, "Whatchu think? You like it? Think you'd fancy come hang out sometimes?"

She's speechless. She doesn't know where to start, doesn't understand why he brought her here and what it means, _if_ it means anything. It feels like a bad joke but she knows that his intentions are nothing but helpful. She's lost.

"I've been in therapy for six weeks," she blurts out.

And it's literally the less related answer she could possibly make, but it's the only thing she can think about right now. She doesn't know why she's here, but she can tell that it's important for him, that it's a big step although she has no idea of which kind. And she wants to return the favor and step forward too. Hoping that they can somehow meet halfway.

His eyes glow with pride and it warms her up, "Why didn't you tell me before?" he asks.

"I didn't want to disappoint you in case I... didn't hang on to it," she whispers, her eyes prickling with upcoming tears.

He's in front of her within two steps, "But you did hang on, ma, didn't you?" he drawls in a low voice, slipping one finger under her chin to raise her face at him. She nods, vulnerability written all over her face, and he smiles, giving her an exit, "C'mon, let me show you around!"

He takes her hand and she follows, grateful that he didn't ask any more question about it. He knows the discomfort she's in every time she lets him see her in such raw and vulnerable state. His hand is warm around hers, and when they come around his king-size bed she shoves him down out of an impulse. She can't stop thinking about what she did to him a year ago, and even if there's absolutely nothing that will redeem _that_ , maybe creating new, positive memories with him and celebrating his aliveness in its most enjoyable way is, at least, a start. His hand is still clasped around hers and he uses it to pull her down until she falls on the bed too, half landing over him, and she's pretty sure that her head clumsily hit his jaw in the process, but he doesn't seem to care as he immediately captures her lips between his, kissing her with an abandon she's hardly ever felt from him, and she thinks that maybe he needs to create new memories with her here too.

And then she doesn't think at all anymore, because they just turn the bed into a mess of crumpled sheets and flying clothes, filling the silence with ecstatic moans that definitely don't sound like death rattles.

"You hungry?" he asks, later, as they are huddled against each other in the afterglow, "Cause I'm for sure in for some of 'em cookies of yours!"

She opens wide eyes, pretending to be shocked, "Are you one of these people who tolerate crumbs in their bed? Do I know you at all?"

He laughs, and she realizes that it's the first time in literally ages that she feels light-hearted enough to make a _joke_.

"I just can't leave the bed if it has you in it," he thoughtfully says, his fingertips running up and down her back, "And you don't wanna let me starve to death, do you?"

And she knows it's a joke, and even a good one, filled with sweet and fluffy tenderness, but hearing him joking about his own death, it's... too soon. He sees the sudden sadness on her face, and he bites his lips, cupping her jaw with one hand and forcing her to look him in the eyes.

"Elizabeth... You know I forgave you, right? So... maybe it's time you forgive yourself."

There is something imploring in his tone, in the intensity with which he looks at her, and she wishes she understood, but that's the thing, she doesn't. She knows now that he's the one who called the ambulance and healed her cuts, he's protected and saved her from herself. But it doesn't make any sense, she almost killed him, for God's sake. Ever since he's started supporting her, _carrying_ her, really, she's never gotten why. And maybe that's also the reason that makes her so afraid that he could exit from her life any minute.

She blinks several times, and her voice is trembling when she asks the question she's been willing to ask for so long, "Why? Why have you been doing all of this?"

He leans over her and kisses her, taking his time to meet her tongue, letting her enjoy the warmth and the softness of his lips, before he straightens, licking his lips, his eyes deeply staring into hers.

"Cause it's you."

And it feels like a little quiver at the back of her mind, but just like that, she thinks that maybe there are things in life that make it worth living. And that's... that's new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support and nice comments. ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> I'm not gonna lie, I'm still freaked out about season 3. But I poured a lot of my heart into this story and it makes me really happy to share it with you, guys... 🙏🙏🙏

**Author's Note:**

> [06/05 EDIT] I have noticed that I got a lot of new guests kudos lately, so first of all thank you very much, it's really nice to see that so many people appreciate my work! But also I would reaaaaaaally like to know how so many of you found out about my fics? Are you a group or something? If anyone of you guys could just post a comment to tell me, or send me an ask on my [tumblr](https://bourbon-ontherocks.tumblr.com/) just to let me know that would be super nice because I'm dying to know!!! Thank you again!! 💖💖💖💖


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